


i am tired of my grief

by slytherintbh



Series: dredged [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abusive Behaviours, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Javert Lives, Post-Seine, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 12:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12457404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/pseuds/slytherintbh
Summary: Sometimes, it seems cruel not to let a man die, not when living is such an agony. Valjean cannot abide by the thought of letting Javert slip into the Seine, but he is fighting a war. He is tired.He is so, so tired.





	i am tired of my grief

**Author's Note:**

> a slightly more realistic (?) post seine, depending on how you read Javert. totally not me projecting in any way.

“Why couldn’t you just let me _die?”_

A jug goes sailing past Valjean’s head, narrowly missing him and clipping the edge of his ear. Valjean sighs. He is getting rather good at dodging missiles these days, and it is not so different from dodging punches, which he excels at. That being said, he still has the evidence of a failed attempt from a few weeks past. One thin red line - it extends from the top of his forehead to his eyebrow. Javert had initially heaved a heavy triumphant breath, then lost all colour at the sight of blood trying to slip into Valjean’s eye, unthinkable guilt making him tremble. Needless to say, that fight had ceased immediately. Two hours later, a bouquet of flowers had taken residence on the table, and there hadn’t been a raised voice in the house for almost three days.

Said flowers are now wilting in their pot. Valjean can’t bear to remove them. Javert is too abashed at the memory to acknowledge them. They sit and wilt and watch as another cup flies through the air and lands on the sofa.

“Please, Javert.” It is the first thing Valjean has said in this one-sided argument, as is the usual fare for Javert’s tirades. He is tired. “Must we do this again?”

It has been five months. It is cold, it is midwinter, they should be curling up before a fire and reading, not throwing the contents of the pantry about. With a huff, Javert drops the fork he is holding (and thank God for that, it could do real damage) and he turns his head away. Valjean does not know why Javert tries to disguise his weeping. Both know it is happening. Neither wish for it to be so.

If it were in his power, Valjean would let Javert leave.

It is not. God, he is tired. He is tired of sleeping on the couch, but he must. Years as a fugitive have taught him to be wakeful in his rest. So when Javert tries to sneak out of the house, as he has done many a time, Valjean is there and he accompanies Javert on his night-time ‘walks’, both pretending that he was not about to go into the night and drop himself back into the Seine. It is far easier to pretend. Dark discussions about suicide are far, far too complex and agonising for Valjean to bring them up as often as he should.

They never lead anywhere. Valjean cries, because it tears him apart, and Javert turns colder and more uncomfortable at the sight of such misery on his account. His lips are sewn.

Valjean would be delighted to see Javert cry openly, if only because it would be a change. As it is, the ex-inspector mutely stalks out of the room and ascends the stairs, effectively closing any chance of improvement or conclusion. No doubt he will sob himself into exhaustion or complain conspicuously loudly at the lack of place to tie a noose.

Maybe Javert is right. Maybe Valjean shouldn’t have fished the body out of the water. It was certainly not his problem – he was just walking by the river after one of the longer days of his life. That the dark figure buoyed up by the current had been Inspector Javert was pure chance. Initially, Valjean had believed it to be providence. Now that the weeks stretch onward and into the far distance of the past, he doubts it. Punishment would be more believable. It is a terrible punishment, to listen to a man beg for death.

No sound comes from upstairs, and it is making him anxious. Has the man found a knife? Has he found a suitable spot for a rope? Surely not. The knives and razors are locked away, used only under close gaze.

Anxiety clutches at Valjean and he ascends the stairs. “Javert?” There is no reply. Pausing in front of the man’s door, he listens closely for any sign of life and finds none. He steels himself for the worst and quietly enters. Thanks be to God, there is no rope, and Javert is not sitting on the edge of the bed staring into space as he is wont, which Valjean dislikes but cannot outright fault. No, instead Javert is standing by his window. The reflected image of his worn face, lined with months of deep grief, is surprisingly calm. From where he stands, Valjean can tell that snow is glancing off the glass pane.

“It is snowing,” Javert says simply. “And yet you can still see the stars.”

Rarely does Javert say so many words that are not in reference to his own death, or insults to Valjean’s person. Uplifted, Valjean walks up to the window and observes. While the bruised, swelling clouds cover most of the sky, stars are indeed poking through the mass of black and grey, pricks of light amidst a flurry of snow. Paris is astonishingly peaceful, yet Valjean can only think of the poor, huddled in horror at their executioner. Winter is only beautiful if one can escape it.

“I am sorry,” Javert whispers. Once-proud hair is hanging limply down his back and along his face. It is too long, and it is unkempt, the man of Montreuil and the proud inspector have died. All that remains is this angry husk of a man, one thought gone by most. Why apologise? Only God and Valjean can judge him. Thus far it seems as though he cares not for their punishment.

“Thank you,” Valjean replies. He is thankful.

Again, Javert looks out into the night with his bright, haunted eyes. “I do you much wrong,” he says. “If you let me out into this, I would never trouble you again. Or anyone. Harsher than it would have been in summer, but –“

“Enough.” Valjean doesn’t have the strength to sound angry. “I do not want you dead.”

“Your life would be easier.”

“I do not want ease –“

“I think,” Javert interrupts. “You were displeased to find it was me. I think you were unhappy.”

Those first few days were hard. Valjean had nursed the damaged man and loathed it. God, it seemed, was testing him. Save this man who would have arrested you! Save this unyielding yardstick of the law. Wipe the fever from his brow, listen to the doctor’s uncertain postulating, remain unmoved when he finally wakes and shuffles from your touch like a brand, eyes wide and terrified, as though you have not rocked him through his nightmares like a babe –

“It is you who says it,” Valjean mutters.

“So I am right.” Javert wrings his hands in what Valjean knows to be nervousness. It was a constant habit in the first few months. Silent, agitated motions, crushing his fingers until they turned bloodless. His voice pitches high. “I meant never to bother you.”

Why is he talking? Is it the snow?

“I’m not bothered by you, Javert. You are welcome in my home.” Valjean places a soothing palm over Javert’s hands, stilling them. “You know this.”

“Fine. Fine. Not by me. But you are bothered. I hear you in the night.”

A pit opens in Valjean’s stomach. The nightmares of the barricade and of Toulon are for him, and him alone. “That is not your concern.” Sometimes, Javert is in them, wielding a knife. He draws lines, carving Valjean into the paragon of virtue that cannot be fashioned from alms alone. Agony splits Valjean in two; he wakes with the cut along his brow pulsing, or with his back flaring.

“Am I not a cause?” Concerned eyes pierce Valjean through.

“Sometimes,” Valjean has to admit. He looks at Javert, properly looks. Who _is_ this man, anymore? Who, for that matter, is Valjean?

“I – am sorry –“ Javert chokes, and then he is sobbing, and his hands grasp at the fabric of Valjean’s shirt, and hot damp is unfurling from where his face curves into the material, made small in his misery. “I am so sorry,” he repeats, and he is not Inspector Javert. A perfect stranger is weeping into Valjean’s embrace. Valjean is so tired. He has been fighting for half a year. Half a year of mute defiance, and aggression, and it has culminated in this pathetic lonely display. Briefly he is disgusted, then he feels deep pity. Then joy. A dam has broken.

He hugs Javert. Fingers curl through knotted hair. “Shh now,” Valjean murmurs. “I have you.” Javert is shaking at the touch, made fresh in his awakening, he is as silent as the snowfall save for a few weak whimpers. It seems too good to be true.

Tomorrow, Valjean may find another pitcher thrown at his head.

Valjean does not think about tomorrow.

 

 


End file.
